


So Soft

by supersoakerx



Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: Body Image, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Insecurity, voluptuous!Wifey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23128378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersoakerx/pseuds/supersoakerx
Summary: Paterson comforts you when you feel insecure about your bigger body.
Relationships: Paterson (Paterson)/Reader, Paterson (Paterson)/You, Paterson / You, paterson x reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	So Soft

You had to leave soon. In like, 15 minutes? And that was for you to be fashionably late, too.

It feels like you’ve tried on everything in your closet, different tops and bottoms and coats and dresses and even scarves are strewn about your bedroom: on the floor, on the bed, on the chair. You’ve assessed your outfits in the mirror so many times, with so many different combinations of clothes, that you’re sick of looking at yourself. Nothing was sitting right, fitting right, looking right, feeling right. It was getting hard, too hard, and you were running late and everything was a mess and your eyes started to well up and-

A knock on the door. “Honey?” Pat’s voice is muffled through the wood, “you ok in there?”

You swallow and tilt your head up, blinking, willing your tears to stay in your eyes. This whole thing was so frustrating and you just hated it! You wonder if it’s too late to call and say you’re sick.

“Fine, Pat, mmhm,” you call back, voice wavering. You silently curse yourself for letting on your mood. You were hoping to keep this contained to the bedroom, get ready, leave the house and pretend like none of your crisis of confidence ever happened.

Little did you know, Paterson had been checking the time for a little while now. He knew you had plans tonight, knew when you should’ve left, knew you were running late now. And what’s more, he knew _why_. “Can I come i-“ he starts.

You cut him off, “no. No, don’t. I’m fine.” You really weren’t, and you both knew it.

Pat frowns on the other side of the door. He turns the handle on the door, slowly, gently, easing it open with a little creak.

“No no please, if you come in here Pat I think I might cry and I’ve already done my make u-“ you plonk yourself down on the bed, in your bra and underwear, feeling the straps and underwire of your bra digging in all the wrong places. You gather a bunch of clothes in your lap, for no real reason, just to try to barricade yourself, hide yourself from him, you guess. You cut off your words when Pat kneels on the floor next to your legs, leaning his side against the bed.

“Beautiful,” he sighs it, like it’s your name, but he sounds a little bit sad too, as he places one hand on your knee and one hand at your lower back, stroking his thumb back and forth across your skin, slowly. “Honey, you know no one minds what you wear,” he places a kiss to the side of your thigh, a part not covered by the bundle of clothes that you’re clutching to yourself, “people want to see _you_ , want to spend time with _you_. They’re not going to look at your clothes, sweetheart.”

You take a deep breath. His words are… nice. You know he means them… and he’s probably _right_ , but you feel so far down the rabbit hole already, you’ve gotten too stuck in your own head about this. Again. Often. “I just want something that fits, Pat. Is that too much to ask for babe?” You look down at the clothes in your lap and huff a small little laugh. At least you think it’s a laugh, until you feel your bottom lip tremble and see a little drop of something fall from your face onto a… is that a sweater?

“Oh, honey,” Pat sighs. His heart is breaking for you. He gets up and settles himself on the bed next to you, wraps his arms around you, one along your front and one along your back, his hands gripping your arm on the far side from him, and he pulls you into his chest. He rests his chin on the top of your head. “I wish you could see what I see, (Y/N).”

You close your eyes and let yourself melt into Paterson. He’s so warm, and big, and smells so good. You swallow the big hard lump in your throat as another stupid, disloyal tear slips from a corner of one of your eyes. You try to steady yourself with a deep but shaky sigh.

When Paterson feels you exhale, he thinks he might have an idea. His voice is pitched low and soft when he says, “Honey, if there’s nothing for you in _your_ wardrobe, would you wear something of mine?”

You tilt your head up at him and he leans back slightly to look down at you properly. He sees your eyebrows furrowed and your lips parted in a little ‘o’, like you’re about to say, ‘what?’, and how the whites of your eyes have gone a little red from unshed tears.

He loves your confused face, but he hates seeing you cry, it hurts him, like ice through his chest. He gently places a hand on the side of your face, and very lightly with his thumb, rubs away the little line that your tear made in your makeup.

He’s so gentle it almost makes your eyes well up all over again.

When he speaks next, his breath ghosts over your face. “Mm, you know that shirt I’ve got, the one that kinda matches your eyes?”

“Y-yeah?” You guess, half-remembering it.

Paterson gives you a lazy half-smile. “You’d look so pretty in it, honey,” he says, searching your eyes, and then he leans in, his left cheek resting against your right, and he breathes into your ear, “So hot, baby.” He pulls away, trying to catch your eyes with his.

You huff a dismissive laugh at him, and look down at the ground. “Yeah, right,” you say, unable to really believe him in this moment, and then you sigh, a big deep exhale, resigning yourself to keeping your plans and readying yourself for the next few hours.

You don’t see Paterson soften his eyes at you, a hint of regret in them. He wishes he could change your mind, show you, make you see—

“It’s too late to cancel, huh?” You flick your gaze back up to him, breaking him from his thoughts.

He gives you a frown, pulling his lips together into a thin line. “A little, honey, yeah, but if you don’t feel up to it-“

“No, no. I’ll go. I made a commitment, after all.” You trail off. “Do you uh… do you have that shirt?” At least you could pretend you were wrapped up in him while you were out. And it sounded like he’d like to see you in it, at least.

Paterson gives you a toothy grin, presses a kiss to the middle of your forehead, finds the shirt of his that reminds him of your eyes, and leaves the room to let you get dressed in peace.

*******

Paterson closes the door softly behind him, and takes quick quiet strides to the kitchen, where he’s got a spare notepad near the landline phone. He hurries, scrawling down a note, getting all of his thoughts out onto the paper, before ripping it out of the pad, scrambling over to the coat rack, and shoving it in your handbag. Then, he hurries to settle himself down on the couch like he was there the whole time.

He hears your bedroom door open and the footfalls of your boots on the floorboards. He looks up, expecting to see you in the doorway, but nothing could have prepared him for actually _seeing_ you. With your hair and makeup done just the way you like, your favourite jeans, boots, t-shirt and then his button down shirt hanging open on top, he can’t get over how incredibly _you_ you look. And also, how amazingly _his_ you look, too.

He’s staring, and you blush. You go such a pretty pink for him, he thinks. “Can I drive you?” he offers, as you head towards the coat rack, ducking your head in a small little show of shyness.

“No, baby, it’s fine. I can do it. Thanks, though. I’ll see you soon, ok? There’s a couple of cold ones in the fridge,” you shrug on your coat, grab your bag, “two or three, I think?”

Paterson smiles at you. His eyes are soft and warm and crinkled in the corners as the sides of his mouth pull up. You didn’t seem to notice his note yet, which was perfect. He gets up off the couch to meet you at the door. “I love you,” he says, beaming. “I’m proud of you.”

You smile back at him, tell him you love him, kiss him goodbye. You tell Marvin to be good, who barks back at you, and you head out the door.

*******

Paterson’s tidying up all your clothes in the bedroom when he feels it. A tug, a pull, a blooming warmth, deep in his belly and at the base of his spine. Maybe it’s all your clothes, and the images in his mind of you in them, or _out_ of them. Maybe it’s your sweet perfume, lingering in the air. Maybe it’s the smell of you, just you, your hair, or your skin first thing in the morning.

He thinks of you in his shirt, going out and showing all the world that you’re his, and pride makes his heart swell. Something else swells, too.

What he didn’t say before, when you were weary and done and blinded by doubt, was that it took everything in him not to lay you down on your bed, the bed he was now clearing all your discarded clothes from, and place the softest, silkiest pillows under your head, and kiss every inch of you. How it took all his willpower to be strong for you, when all he wanted was to lick and suck at your skin all the way from your toes to your hairline, from the backs of your ankles to the nape of your neck. He meant it when he said he wished you could see what he sees.

When Paterson looks at you he sees the strong, beautiful woman he knows you are. The woman who takes on the world every, single, day. The woman who takes his heart and his love and returns it tenfold. The woman who, after years, still makes him smile and laugh and see the good and the beauty and the wonder in things, in life itself. The woman he writes poems for, the woman he makes love to, the woman he fucks, who makes him weak, who makes him tremble with a want and a need unlike anything he’s experienced before. The woman, his woman, who is entirely, completely, herself.

And your shape. Your figure. Your body. Clothed, naked, dripping wet from the shower or cozy in bed on Sunday morning…

It didn’t matter. Thinking about your body made his mouth water.

But he knows you. He knows some days you struggle. He knows some days are harder than others. But he’s so happy, he’s elated, that you picked him. You chose him, to be the one to pick you up, lift you out of your bad days. You chose him, to be the one to adore you, the whole of you: your body, face, mind, soul and heart.

He tries to push it away, tries to tamp it down, the simmering in his blood, radiating out from between his legs.

He knows it’s selfish of him, to crave you like this. It might not be what you need or want right now. Realistically, it probably isn’t. But Paterson can’t help it. He can’t wait for you to get home.

*******

You’re standing in line at the restaurant counter, rifling through your bag to find your wallet to pay for your meal. Your fingers clasp a bit of folded up paper, which you don’t recognise. You’re sure it wasn’t in there befo—

“(Y/N)” is written on one side in black pen, in Pat’s handwriting.

You look up from your bag and see there’s still a couple people in the queue. _What the heck_ , you think to yourself, inwardly shrugging. _Why not?_

You unfold the paper, and read the note inside:

_“You ~~don’t~~ can’t know all the ways I want you. You don’t know all the ways I think about holding you, having you, making you mine, over and over, all the time. When you get home please let me kiss you ~~. E~~ everywhere. Let me show you how much I adore you and your body. Let me make love to you tonight, my peach. —Pat”_

His writing is messy, he must’ve been in a rush. But still, your heart rate ticks up, a little blush blooms in your cheeks, it sends tingles through you—

“Uh, miss? Can I help you?” The person behind the counter calls to you. You look up to see there’s no one in front of you, and behind you someone’s got their arms crossed, looking shitty.

You run up to pay, apologising, you shove your wallet and the receipt and a business card and whatever else into your bag, and race to the car. You can’t help it. You can’t wait to get home to Paterson.

*******

It’s been hours. It almost feels like it’s been _days_.

Paterson’s done every chore he could think of, inside and out of the house. (Except that damn letterbox. He considered it, but it was getting dark and he needs some quick set concrete from the hardware store. He decided he’ll do it this weekend.)

He’s stalked through the house, looking for something, anything to do, unable to keep still.

He tried to write, he tried to read, but his mind kept straying, betraying him.

And all with thoughts of you. Just you. He couldn’t see anything else.

He thinks about the first time he ever saw you. He thinks about you on the day you married him. He thinks about the last time he saw you, earlier tonight, wrapped up in his shirt. He thinks about you naked, in the bed you share, your hair fanning out over the pillows. He thinks about the sounds you make when he pleasures you.

He thinks about that time he ate a peach, and thought of you, and how he was immediately done for.

He thinks about every way he’s had you and all the ways he wants to have you.

That’s what does it. That’s what sends him careening to your bedroom. He races to your side of the bed, sits down. Fingers fumbling as he tries to do it all too quickly, he unbuckles his belt, undoes the button on his jeans, unzips his fly. He shoves it all down his thighs, his trunks as well, and lays down on your bed with his head on your pillow and his throbbing cock in his hand.

Paterson nuzzles his face into your pillow, breathing you in. His other hand comes up to run over his chest, feeling his nipples poke through his shirt. He thumbs over one of them and moans, softly, bucking into his fist where he’s taking long, slow strokes up and down his thick shaft. He’s just teasing himself, he knows, but your scent on the pillow is just teasing him too.

Your hair smells wonderful, but nothing compares to the smell of your—

“Paaat!” he hears you call from the living room, keys jangling and the latch of the front door closing. “Baby, I’m,”

“In here!” he calls back to you, too excited and eager. He jumps up immediately and kicks off his jeans and his trunks, “come here, please honey,” he whips off his shirt, “in the bedroom,” he kicks his discarded clothes to the side, making a messy pile. He makes his way over to meet you at the door, not giving a single care about how his hard dick bobs with every step. God, he hopes you want this. He hopes you want him.

You step into the doorway and Pat immediately falls to his knees in front of you, completely naked and already hard. Very hard, looks like. You’re pleasantly surprised and immediately aroused.

“Oh, honey, I need you,” he grips your hips, clutching at your layers of clothes and trying to grab at your skin, your flesh. “Are you,” he leans in and kisses your belly, “can I,” another kiss, “will you,” another. He stops himself and looks up at you, he takes a steadying breath and runs his hands, gently now, up and down the sides of your legs, over your jeans, collecting himself. “Did you read my note, honey?”

“Yes, baby, I read it,” you give him a little, bashful smile and put a hand on his bare shoulder. He was so warm, and his skin ripples with goosebumps at your touch.

“Will you let me?” His eyes, dark brown in the low light, search yours, his fingers still trailing up and down your legs.

You card your fingers through his hair with your other hand, putting back a few strands that fell loose. If you were honest with yourself, you were still feeling just a tiny bit vulnerable, still just a little bit tender from earlier, with the clothes and the doubt and sadness, despite his handwritten note. But here he was, your husband, on his knees stroking your legs and asking if you would let him make love to you. You take a deep breath, and when you exhale, you try to release every niggling anxious thought in your mind, you try to make them all fade to black as you stare into his eyes, and answer him with a breathy “yes, Pat.”

He breaks into a big smile, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he puffs out a delighted little chuckle, relieved and happy. It makes you smile too, a big one with teeth that overcomes your whole face as joy lights up your features. Paterson loves when you smile like this, “you’re so pretty, honey,” he almost whispers.

You get all shy now, and really, you’re not sure why. You’ve been married to this man for years. You bite your bottom lip and twinkle your eyes at him.

Paterson hums, his gaze flicking down to your mouth, “mm, I love when you do that.” He trails his hands up the sides of your legs, around the backs of your thighs, and up to rub big circles over your ass cheeks. You feel the warmth of his palms through your jeans, and you blink slowly, enjoying the feel of him. “So sexy,” he whispers, his eyes trailing down to your chest. “Let me take these clothes off you, can I?” His gaze flicks back up to yours, and he stills his hands, splaying his big palms and thick fingers wide over your cheeks. He loves how your ass feels in his hands, even with your clothes on.

You look down at him, his eyes all hungry and wanting, but his eyebrows are still pulled up a little, still asking, seeking your assent. You spy his lips, all full and flushed, and say, “kiss me first, baby.”

Pat hums again, a smile playing at his features, and stands up to his full height. He’s completely naked, looking down at you, and you’re fully clothed, boots and all, looking up at him.

“I remember the first time I kissed you, honey, at the waterfall,” he brushes some loose hair back behind your ear, his fingertips grazing your hairline, and then following the strands down, his fingers run over your shoulder blade, “do you remember that?” He settles his hand at the small of your back.

Images flash through your mind, recollections of your first kiss with Paterson. You nod and say, “yes, baby, of course I remember.”

His eyes crinkle up as he smiles. He brings his free hand up to cup your cheek, as he says, “sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted, before or since.” He leans in, hovers his mouth over yours, eyes half closing. He lets the tip of his nose rub against yours, grazes your lips with his own, just barely touching. He’s drawing it out for both of you, the two of you almost high from breathing in each other’s air. “’n’ now I can’t get enough.”

You bring your hands up to grasp him. You grab his right bicep, on the arm snakes that around to your lower back, at the same time as you grip his left forearm, his left hand cradling your cheek.

“Pat…” you whisper, your eyes falling closed as you lean in.

“Peach,” he breathes, pressing his lips to yours.

You heart soars as he kisses you. You feel like you’re floating, rising off the ground as he gently pulls you to him with his hand at your lower back. Paterson feels boneless, weightless. His other hand still cradles the side of your face, so warm and soft and gentle, and when his fingertips graze your scalp just behind your ear and he moves his lips against yours, you let out a little moan. Pat lets loose a deep sigh through his nose.

When neither of you can breathe anymore, you pull away for air, softly, your lips disconnecting with a little wet sound from the suction, your eyes blinking open slowly, lightly puffing breaths into each other’s mouths and over each other’s lips.

Paterson licks his lips, eyes half lidded, says deep and low and quiet, breath fanning over your face, “can I see all of you, honey?” He dips his hand at your lower back down the back of your jeans, inside your underwear. He seeks out the soft, yielding flesh of one of your ass cheeks and kneads it in his big hand.

You nod, and he leans in and kisses you again, his soft lips pressing against yours, as he glides both hands up and over your body to grip the collar of his shirt you’re wearing, pulling your face even closer to his.

You moan into his mouth and he licks at your bottom lip as he clutches the shirt collar and slides it over your shoulders, down your arms, over your hands and takes it all the way off you, tossing it away somewhere. It lands on the floor with a small thump that neither of you really hear.

You open your mouth to him and he hums, happy and excited. He slides over your tongue with his own as his big lips move over yours, caressing them.

Paterson grips the hem of your t-shirt and slowly lifts it up, letting it drag over your skin. When he can’t lift it any higher, he breaks your kiss and you throw your arms into the air. He yanks your shirt up and off, throwing it who knows where. He dips a hand into the back of your jeans again, groping the flesh of your ass. He places his other hand on one side of your neck, makes a loose fist in your hair, and tilts your head to that side. Then he leans in and places hot, slow kisses to the sensitive skin of your neck that he’s exposed. With the tip of his nose he nudges back stray hairs that get in his way.

When he hears your pleasured sighs, he brings his hands away from your ass and your hair, takes them both to the buttons on your jeans. His fingers work to undo them, while his lips and his hot breath cover the side of your neck, your shoulder, and even a little way down your décolletage.

When he’s unbuttoned and unzipped your jeans, he holds them there, and kisses his way down your chest, kisses the flesh at the top of your breasts where they sit encased in your bra, sinking to his knees as slowly as he works his mouth down your body. He kisses a line down your belly, and licks and sucks at your skin where it’s marked up with red lines from your jeans. It sends tingles through you.

He’s fully seated on his knees again when he looks up at you, staring into your eyes. “You looked great in my shirt honey, but,” he slides his hands down the side of your legs, over your calves, “you look good enough to eat, like this.” Your breath hitches and a corner of his mouth ticks up in a small smile. He looks down, grabs the back of one of your ankles, lifts your foot off the ground and slides your boot off. He does the same for your other foot, and trails his hands back up your legs, hooking his index fingers into your belt loops. He slides your jeans and your panties down over the curves of your ass, your hips, dragging them down your legs until you can step out of them.

You’re standing above him in only your bra, and he’s kneeling below you fully naked. His eyes roam over your whole body.

When his gaze meets your eyes again, he says, “I can’t wait to see them, honey,” and he tilts his head towards your chest.

You give him a little half smile, and bring your arms up behind your back to unclasp the hooks of your bra yourself. Totally involuntary, Paterson licks his lips. He doesn’t even realise he does it. He runs his palms up and down the sides and backs of your legs again.

When your bra is unhooked, you bring your hands around to your front, and rub at your full cups. You squeeze your breasts through your bra, push them together, run your hands up over them, where your nipples are. Paterson stares up at your chest, hypnotised by the movements of your hands.

The straps are almost falling off you now, and you grip them, about to pull them down and take your bra off and away from you. “Oh honey please,” rushes out of Paterson’s mouth, breathlessly.

You pull your bra off by the straps and let it fall to the floor between you. Paterson actually whimpers, a short, high little thing, at the sight of your bare breasts.

He gets up to standing, and cradles your face in his hands, taking a step towards you so your bodies are flush. He gazes deep into your eyes. “You are so beautiful,” he says, deep, and slow, and measured, making sure you hear every syllable, really hear him when he says it. His breath hitches at the end, and his eyes search yours. They look a little shinier than usual, like maybe he’s tearing up. “So beautiful, (Y/N),” he whispers, as he leans in and pulls you toward him for another kiss, just as soft and gentle and deep as the last.

His hands trail down your neck to cup at your breasts. He runs the backs of his fingers over your stiff nipples, and sparks of pleasure jolt through you. You push your chest out to him, moaning softly, and Paterson hums.

He takes one hand down to grip at your ass again, while his other hand clutches at one of your breasts, holding it and lifting it upwards slightly. He curls his back, bows his head, and sucks your nipple into his mouth while he kneads one of your ass cheeks.

It makes you flex your spine, your back arching, pushing your chest into his face and your ass into his hand. When Paterson feels this, he groans around your nipple, licks at it, sucks at it. He pulls you impossibly closer, wanting more of you, all of you, everything.

You steady yourself by clutching on to him, grapping at his big strong arms. You’re whining, warmth flooding your limbs.

Paterson pulls off your breast with a wet pop, and brings his other hand down to palm at your other cheek. He’s so tall, he can lean over one of your shoulders and watch as he gropes and kneads your flesh. And he does.

“Mmmhhoney,” he groans, his hands grabbing fistfuls of your backside, “I’ll never get tired of your ass, baby,” he squeezes then, hard, and pulls, separating your cheeks, but then he lets go, watching as your flesh jiggles, “so soft, honey,” he rubs big circles over the swell of your cheeks again, “love this ass,” he breathes, barely a whisper. Paterson didn’t realise he said that last part out loud.

Your hands rest on his hips, and you glide your fingers down his hip bone, into the little patch of hair he keeps neat and tidy for you.

“No, honey,” Paterson says, letting go of your ass and taking a step back from you. He holds his hand out to you, “come lay down with me,” he tilts his head to the bed.

You take his hand and bring it to your lips, planting a small kiss to his fingers. He smiles a broad, closed mouth smile, his eyes glinting. “There’s my sweetheart.”

You get up onto the bed. You’re not sure how he wants you, what he’s got planned, so you lay on your back, arranging the pillows behind your head. “Yeah, get comfy honey,” he encourages you. He kneels up on the bed, just on the edge. He runs his fingers over your feet, your ankles, and says, “can you spread these for me?”

You scoot your legs wide, and Paterson falls forward onto his palms. He crawls up the bed, between your legs, slowly, stalking towards you like a lion, his shoulders rippling. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t sneak a glance down at his hard, thick length, hanging between his legs.

He stops when he’s leaning over you, holding himself up on his palms planted either side of your head, his crotch resting on yours. Your hair is spread out over the pillow, just like he imagined. Your eyes are sparkling, your lips and cheeks are flushed. “So pretty, honey,” he says, low and quiet.

You trail the tips of your fingers up the hard sides of his belly, along his obliques, and his skin there breaks into goosebumps. Pat feels skin tingling, and he pushes his hips into you, making you both sigh.

He takes a hand from the side of your head and trails his fingertips down your body. He shifts off your hips, lets his fingers dance along your folds. He leans down to your ear as he gently spreads you open with his fingers, “I can’t stop thinking about being inside you, honey,” he works his fingertips over your pussy, gathering your arousal and smearing it over your folds, and he drops his voice to a whisper, “all I can think about is your pretty little cunt,” he nibbles your ear.

You’re sighing and moaning softly, gently, at his ministrations and his words. You felt yourself slicking up, getting ready for him, and when his thumb grazed your clit, you gasped and arched your back off the bed. “Mmm, and this too,” he does it again, and starts to rub small, light rings around you.

Your eyes find his and he’s gazing at you, deeply, he’s lost in you. It makes more wetness gush out of you and you whimper.

“I know, I felt that too, honey.” Paterson changes the angle of his hand, and he leans down into the crook of your neck again. He breathes his words your skin, “let me in, baby,” and he slips the tip of his finger inside your tight pussy.

You whine his name, and Pat’s dick pulses with desire, the pitch and the drag of your voice over his name going straight through him.

He eases the rest of his finger into you, and listens intently for the sounds you make, his eyes trained on your mouth.

You let out a moan, and Paterson groans feeling you clench around him. “You’re so tight on my finger, honey,” he relishes the whimper this draws from you, “I never know how I fit in here,” he slides his finger in and out of you slowly, deliberately, while his thumb rubs circles into your clit. He’s trying to prepare you, to get you really good and ready to take him. He doesn’t want to hurt you, he only wants to show you, physically, how much you mean to him. How much he loves you. How devoted he is to making your body quake with pleasure.

But your little whimpers are making it almost impossible for him to see reason. “I know, honey, I know, I’ve gotta get you ready, baby,” in one hand you fist the sheets, in the other you clutch a fistful of hair at the back of his head, almost growling, “don’t make it so hard for me, honey, please. you know I need to,” you give him your biggest, sweetest, pleading eyes, and he sighs.

He leans down to your ear again, nosing your hair out of the way. He whispers into your ear, “ever since you left, all I’ve wanted to do,” he slides a second finger in alongside the first, “is fuck my cock into your tight pussy.”

You moan, loud, as his two fingers make sloppy wet sounds, he’s pumping the full length of them all the way in and all the way out of you, and Paterson groans, his dick drooling cum onto your thigh. He fights the urge to lick it up and drip it into your mouth.

Thankfully, he’s distracted, by your tits bouncing almost in his face.

It’s almost a growl, the noise that leaves the back of his throat, when he latches his mouth onto your breast. His lips close around your areola and he sucks, and you both feel another wave of wetness soak his fingers in your pussy. You keen, high and breathless, when he flicks his tongue over your pert nipple while his thumb and two fingers work you over.

“P-Pat, please-please, baby,” you moan at him, for him, desperate for him to fill you out.

“Mmmm,” he moans onto your nipple, pulling off with a wet sucking sound, “sorry, honey, I just love your t-tits so much,” he goes back again, licking long wet stripes over the hard bud while he fucks you with his fingers.

“Please, please, I’m begging, baby,” you pant, pleasure coiling tight within you. You wanted his cock inside you, feeling around for your cervix with it. You especially wanted his cock inside you for when he makes you cum, which you _know_ he will.

You grip his hair hard in your fingers, and pull his face up to yours. The slick squelch of your pussy is echoing in the room, and you give him your best face that says, “ _please!_ ”

The look on your face makes Pat’s dick drip again. He’s done the best he can, he knows he’s still going to stretch you, but you seem so _desperate_ for it.

Truthfully, so was he.

Pat shifts so he’s holding himself up over you again. He rolls his hips, grinds them into you, making his cock run up and down your folds, catching on your clit.

You pull your lips between your teeth, breathing hard through your nose and shaking your head. You can’t take this, you can’t handle his teasing any longer.

“I’m sorry, honey, I’m sorry, let me,” he grips his dick, lining himself up with your slicked up hole. In position, he rests his cock just outside of you. He leans down to your ear again, breathing over your hair and the shell of your ear, “open up for me, honey, let me in—nnnnhh.” Paterson groans as he rolls his hips, thrusting in to you, and you give, yielding, blooming open for him like a morning flower, fresh with dew.

You cry out, his thick length stretching you open, your pussy squeezing and clenching all over him.

Fully seated inside you, Paterson sits up on his haunches. He’s breathing hard, shifting his thighs under yours as you relax around him enough to let him move. “That’s it, honey, there you go,” he coos to you. He rakes his nails over your thighs, down your shins, and then back up, where he grips under you, gripping tight at your hips and yanking your whole body closer to him, shifting you down the bed a little.

Paterson loved that. He loved seeing your flesh jiggle and bounce, loved feeling your body pliant in his arms.

You moaned when he did it, when he grabbed you and pulled you, skewering you on his dick.

He finally feels your vice grip on him loosen, just enough, and he drags his cock all the way out, pauses, and pushes all the way back in. “God, honey, f-fuck, you’re so, ssoft, (Y/N), inside and out, inside and out.”

Your eyes roll back in your head and your mouth hangs open. You’re sure you look deranged, but you don’t care. Paterson, in fact, loves seeing you like this, splayed out before him, lost to the feel of his cock stroking you from the inside.

Pat leans forward again, supporting his weight with a forearm to the right of you and a his other palm flat on the pillow to the left of you. His thrusts into you from this angle are deep, and slow, long, lazy drags into and out of your silky slicked up pussy, sheathing him as perfectly as a glove made by hand, made just for him.

He rolls his hips, hitting a spot so deep inside you, you forget to breathe.

He really wants to take this slow, he really wants to be tender, and soft, and gentle, and give you what you need.

But he thinks maybe, just maybe, with the way you’re whimpering and whining beneath him, you might need what he does.

So he nuzzles in to your neck, presses big sloppy kisses there, licks your skin, sucks your earlobe into his mouth and says, “I wanna fuck you hard, honey, I wanna watch your tits bounce, please.”

You try to answer, but his words send you deeper into your haze of pleasure, and all that comes out is, “ _mmhm-mmhm-mmhm_.”

Paterson rises up, stilling his hips and sits back on his calves again. You hold your legs up, bent at the knee, and he wraps his fingers around the front of your thighs, preparing to hold you still.

In an instant, Pat drives his cock into you and snaps his hips over and over and over again. You’re almost screaming, almost drowning out the slick slaps of his skin against yours, his balls slapping against you with every hard thrust. He’s filling your pussy up, so full, so fast, it’s almost blinding.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Paterson pants, on every second thrust. Your breasts and your belly are bouncing with the force of his cock slamming into your cunt.

You’re keening, mewling, almost losing vision. You bring your hands up and grab behind your knees, holding your legs back to change the angle of Pat’s thrusts, and you feel like you could explode from the pleasure of it.

He growls, guttural, a dark and wanton thing, and plunges deeper into you. Immediately his hands fly up to grab at your bouncing breasts, and he clutches your flesh in his big warm hands as he pounds into you. “God I love these fucking tits, love your b-big fucking tits, honey, shit,” he’s snapping into you, and your pussy is swallowing him up. He’s not sure how much longer he can last.

He squeezes your breasts, one in each hand, feeling the soft plumpness beneath his fingers. Then, he takes one hand away, running it down your belly to thumb at your clit, while the other rolls your hard nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Christ, honey, your c-clit is sso sstiff and hard,” he’s gruff, he’s losing it, “you need to c-cum, baby?”

It’s all you can do to ramble half-coherently. He doesn’t catch it all, but what it sounds like you’re gasping out is, “yes, Pat, yes, Pat, please, yes, Pat,” and his cock pulses inside you, it’s almost painful for him.

“Let go, honey, let go, let it out, come on,” he’s trying to encourage you, trying to get you there through clenched teeth and grunts.

“P-Pat,” you stutter out, “g-gonna, cum on your c-cock, baby,” you’re panting and moaning as his fingers are playing with you _just right_ and his cock is pounding you _so good_ and—

“Please honey, please baby, yes, just let go, cum on my cock, cum on my cock-“

Your scream tears through the air. You shatter, breaking all over his dick, squeezing and clenching and spasming as your orgasm rocks you to your very bones.

Your body is still shaking and your pussy is still convulsing through your bliss as Paterson groans, loud and hard and rough, his orgasm ripping through his chest as he pumps you full of his cum. He’s trying to fuck you through it but his hips stutter, erratic, he’s almost losing balance through the foggy haze of his bliss.

You’re both panting hard, coming down from your highs. You’re all sticky, sweaty, wet in some way or other.

Paterson, softening, slides gently out of you. He collapses onto the bed next to you, shuffles over, and wraps his arms and legs around you. After a few moments, you’re both breathing deeper, relaxed, warm and sleepy.

You try to rouse yourself, and Paterson. “Baby, shower,” you realise your voice is a little hoarse. You try again, “We gotta shower, Pat, come on baby,” you try to shift him, try to move yourself from under him.

“Nnnnlater,” he murmurs, gruff, and settles in closer to you, nestling into your luscious chest. “Mmmm,” he hums, “so soft.”

You press a kiss to the top of his head, letting the scent of his hair waft over you.

Later will be fine.


End file.
